


Unarmed

by archelonisychros



Series: Free Orcs AU [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Blood and Injury, Body Modification, Childhood Trauma, Domesticity, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, FWB But Like Actually Friends, Flashbacks, Formative Experiences, Free Orcs, Healing, How Many Niche Fetishes Can I Include Here, I Wrote This For Personal Satisfaction, Injury Recovery, Linguistic Fuckery, Multi, Nonbinary Character, Nonmonogamy, Oral Sex, Other, Personal Growth, Porn With Plot, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Safe Sane and Consensual, Yeah I'm a Healthcare Professional, anti-orc racism, lots of talking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2018-12-04 02:14:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11545329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archelonisychros/pseuds/archelonisychros
Summary: Azog is a young soldier fighting in the Orc Wars. This is the story of how he loses his arm, and gains some new perspective.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Diplomatic Relations](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1155299) by [Thorinsmut](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thorinsmut/pseuds/Thorinsmut). 



> Inspired by, and set in, Thorinsmut's Free Orcs AU. This is well prior to Diplomatic Relations (and may tie into Azog's later familiarity with "kissing in the way of Men"). 
> 
> Dialogue in the Black Speech has been indicated in italics. 
> 
> I will probably be upping the rating in later chapters, if it turns out I can write halfway-decent smut. For now, this gets an M for graphic descriptions of injury/medical intervention and mild language.
> 
> I basically rage-wrote this because there just is not enough good content in the Azog fandom. (Some of what exists is FANTASTIC--there just isn't enough of it. XD) As such it caters to my personal interests/kinks a bit; sorry if you're not into hair, blood, homesteading, feels, medical/anatomical studies, or weird sweaty queer sex. Hopefully at least the character development will provide you with some enjoyment.

Only two things were real to Azog now—the pain, and the roaring in his ears.

He knew the latter must be due to blood loss, and even as his mind thickened his right hand remained clamped around the stump of his left. The darkness of the tunnel surrounding him was complete; there was no detectable difference in the quality of the blackness as he squeezed his eyes closed and opened them again. Trying to stay aware, to stay focused.

Time passed. He drifted in and out of awareness, half-reclined on the gritty ground, his shoulders pressed to what he presumed must be the side of the cave. As if it would afford him an advantage, should anyone (or anything) stumble upon him, to have something solid at his back. His axe was gone.

For a moment, his grimace shifted in intensity as he dizzily contemplated the accuracy of 'unarmed' as a descriptor for his current state. Then the pain recentered itself in his thoughts, and again he was lost. Waiting. For death or for….something else.

He wasn’t sure what else there could be. He couldn’t remember which way he’d come when he’d staggered into this unfamiliar tunnel, shock and loss clouding his vision—and even if he had, his remaining limbs were leaden and numb, and the cold that had crept into his belly hours ago was spreading now. No, there was nothing else.

There was nothing but death waiting for him now, but he would not welcome it lying down. He must at least try--to get up, to get out, anything. With the laborious focus of delirium, Azog slowed his ragged breath, and blinked slowly, attempting to gather his wits. When they had caught up to his senses, though, he immediately froze. The darkness was no longer complete.

Detail wormed its way into his vision. Pitted stone, bumps and crevices, with shadows…that moved. His tension crept up another notch. Daylight wouldn’t do that. Wouldn’t grow brighter so quickly….some detached part of his mind was busy observing the incredible quantity of dark, sticky blood that puddled around him and crusted on his outstretched legs. All his. How could there be any left inside him? It was absurd, wasn’t it?

He batted away that train of thought and struggled to focus his failing senses on the tunnel to his right, which was gradually brightening. Through the thunder in his ears he struggled to detect any sound, anything to suggest what was coming toward him. There must be a turn; about ten meters that way, he could see flickering just beyond—

A figure stepped into his field of view. He squinted past the torch in its upraised hand, and his brow furrowed when he recognized it as a Man. Not a cause for great concern at another time; even the strongest of Men was no match for Azog, but now…he scrabbled for purchase against the rock with his feet, his right hand still gripping the stump of his severed left arm, and as the Man stopped short, eyes wide with shock, he found himself still unable to stand, unable to summon the coordination or balance to do more than scoot up closer against the wall behind him.

He redoubled his efforts, panting now, and when he had his feet under him in a crouch he looked up again to see his foe still frozen in place,  staring at him--and at his wound, a ragged glistening stump of  muscle and bone. Waves of blackness rolled across his vision and his chest heaved as he leaned against the stone, fighting to stay semi-upright.

He thought at first that he must be seeing things when the Man extended his free arm, palm up. But then he spoke, and his voice pierced the dull rush of blood through Azog's eardrums.

“ _I, Fuorn Blackwater, do swear on the soul of one closest to me, and in the sight of Aghorr, may He bear witness, to bind your wounds to the best of my ability, to offer you whatever help I may reasonably offer, and to do you no harm, now or henceforth, directly or indirectly, personally or by proxy. This I swear, so long as you do so similarly swear to leave me in peace, and to do me no harm, now or henceforth, directly or indirectly, personally or by proxy. Do you accept?”_

Surprise drove the swirling mayhem of his mind aside for a moment. The Man spoke Uruk, and well, and knew the proper wording of the ancient oath as well. How? Azog shook his head and stared as he weighed his options. Could a Man ever be expected to truly abide by Uruk oath? Would it revere the Ancestor invoked enough to be true to its word? Was this some sort of trick?

On the other hand, he had learned enough simply from attempting to stand to know that he had little chance in a fight, and if the Man was sincere it might be the only way he would leave this hole in the ground alive. He gritted his teeth.

_“I, Azog, the White Orc, do so similarly swear on the soul of one closest to me, and in the sight of Aghorr, may He bear witness, to leave this place in peace and to do you no harm, now or henceforth, directly or indirectly, personally or by proxy, so long as you abide by the oath you have sworn.”_

The Man nodded. _“So mote it be,”_ he answered and, leaving his free hand outstretched away from his side, made his way along the tunnel toward Azog. The Orc allowed himself to slump to the ground, then, but kept his eyes focused on the approaching figure warily even as his knees gave way.

It settled the torch into an iron ring he hadn’t even noticed before, hammered into the wall at about the same height as his own head. Azog struggled to release his face from the rictus of pain, to appear less affected, as the Man knelt before him, just beyond arm’s reach. He was large for his kind, with smooth, pinkish skin and thick, honey-colored hair pulled back into a braid that hung to the middle of his back. His clothes were roughly hewn and undyed, and his movements were slow and deliberate as he unsheathed a small knife from his belt and began to saw at the fabric around the bottom of his tunic.

 _“How is it…that you speak my tongue?”_ Azog grated, his throat tight and dry. The Man was silent for a moment, working at the cloth, before replying without looking up. 

_“I was many years a slave under Dol Guldur. I learned there.”_

Azog shifted, proffering his mutilated arm. The Man tore free a long strip of cloth and resheathed the knife, his gaze moving over the wound again and up to the Orc's scarred, ravaged face, and his green eyes were steadily neutral.

 _“A slave to the Uruk. Yet you show me this kindness,”_ Azog offered. Perhaps it shouldn’t matter, but surely the motivations of a former slave could not be benevolent. The Man looked away then, and picked up the piece of fabric before moving closer and settling on the ground before him.

 _“I saw so much suffering there--of Men, and of Orcs.”_ He began to twist the cloth into a round cord, and now his face twisted, too, into the shape of anger. _“When I left that place I told myself that I would never stand idly by, if it were within my power to alleviate such suffering in the future.”_

He looped the tourniquet around the stump of Azog's arm, below the place where the Orc gripped it with white-knuckled fingers, tied a knot, and slipped his sheathed knife under the cloth. _“This will be painful,”_ he said softly, and began to twist.

As the cord tightened, Azog gritted his teeth. Agony flared anew from the stump and a growl reverberated in his throat while the Man continued to draw the loop closed around what was left of his arm, just below the elbow, murmuring _“I know,”_ using the weapon as a lever to force the tourniquet tighter. _“It hurts. I know. I’m sorry,”_ repeated like a mantra as Azog's growl rose in pitch and volume, and the cloth dug into his flesh, cutting off the last of the blood flow to the open wound.

The pain crescendoed as the Man tied off the tourniquet; every minute motion seemed to bring a new assault on his senses. Azog fought to silence a cry as the last knot was pulled tight, but a choked noise escaped him as his arm was released.

 _“That’s it. That’s all,”_ he was assured, and he slumped back, muscles uncoiling as the pain slowly decreased to a steady throb. It took some effort to gradually unclench his right hand, relinquishing the hours-long grip he’d maintained on his severed limb in an attempt to staunch the bleeding. Azog flexed the stiff fingers and cradled his stump closely to his chest, then opened his eyes to see the Man looking down at him in concern.

It was kneeling beside him, one hand on the ground and the other coming to rest on his furrowed shoulder gently, hesitantly. _“It’s not much, but it will keep your blood inside you until you can see a healer, at least…”_ Azog bit back a harsh laugh. There would be no healer. All his comrades had perished before his eyes, had died for freedom at the hands of those they’d hoped to liberate. He’d no idea where to go to find another healer but home, and that was ten days’ ride from here. And he knew no Man, Dwarf, or Elf healer would see an Uruk for any price. Not that he had any coin to offer.

The Man must have seen some change in Azog's expression, though, because his brow furrowed in reply as he bent over the Orc and looked at him more closely. Azog gazed back and then started when the Man's impractically-long braid slipped forward and fell between them. Only for a moment, before the thick bundle was gathered back out of the way, and the Man sat back quickly.

Perhaps he was more addled than he knew by the blood loss, or perhaps the lessening of his pain had made him bold, but Azog raised his good arm and gestured to the Man’s hair. _“No, no. Please, may I touch it?”_ he asked, and even when the Man’s face revealed confusion and perhaps some apprehension, he repeated himself. _“As you may see, I have none.”_

 _“O…oh. Yes,”_   came the reply, and although the Man still seemed perplexed he swung the braid back over his shoulder to dangle above the reclining Orc.

Azog reached up slowly and took the golden-brown rope of hair into his hand, rolling it between his fingers and watching tiny points of light dance over the individual fibers. It was softer than the fur of a Warg or sheep, and he stroked it with the pad of his thumb a few times before gently letting go. 

_“None, indeed. No eyebrows, or eyelashes, even,”_ the Man remarked in return, scrutinizing his face. _“Anyhow, I can see that you are yet in need. I know of the strength of Uruk, and the speed of their healing. But certainly this is no minor injury. You have lost a great deal of blood.”_ He looked around at the copious black liquid pooled on the floor and spattered over Azog's chest and legs, then down at his own dark-stained hands. _“I am afraid I can do no more for you here and now. But my home is not far. Can you…can you walk?”_

Azog blinked at the offer. A Man, inviting him into his home? Certainly that was too much to ascribe to simple kindness. He must have other motives. But the Orc would be wise not to reveal how weak he was, if possible. He must rise, and follow this Man from this tunnel at least, and perhaps then…

 _“I will follow you,”_ he said, and searched for some reserve of willpower that would reanimate his rubbery, tingling muscles as the Man stood and pulled the torch from its holder, turning to Azog expectantly, and he was succeeding, his legs under him, straightening from the waist and then the roaring in his ears was back, deafening, and still above it he could hear the thundering of his heart, fast, it was too fast, he was weightless—

Blackness, then, and silence.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tark (noun): Uruk slang for a non-Orc person, usually a Man/Woman, with a neutral or informal slant. Recent origin.

Azog awoke slowly.

He was warm. It seemed as if he’d never been warm before, not like this—it penetrated down to his bones, the warmth, and he felt comfortably heavy, sinking down into himself with every breath.

Breath. He must be lying on his back. He could feel his chest rising and falling and something soft beneath him, around him, he was being cradled by warmth and softness and he could hear….birds. Those were bird calls. And something else, too; a quiet rhythmic _chokk chokk chokk_ pause _chokk chokk chokk chokk._ What was that?

He opened his eyes

The walls were of stone. Was he still in the tunnel? No. No, there was light, now, daylight, not firelight, but something was wrong, his arm—

 He flailed for a moment, sitting up and shaking himself free. So much cloth, he was wrapped in cloth, it was everywhere, but his left arm, he could _feel_ it, it was here, and then he extracted it from the cloth and it wasn’t here at all.  It was gone. He stared at the bandaged stump of his forearm even as he flexed the fingers of his left hand, then curled them into a fist. Azog grunted, then gasped as agony flared from the ghost limb. What to believe? His eyes, or his mind that told him he was making a fist, and now opening his hand, palm down, and now he was wiggling his thumb, and it hurt, it hurt….

When his eyes finally focused beyond the place where his hand should be, it was a window that he saw. Through the glass, tree branches swayed slowly, mostly bare in the late fall breeze.  Behind them, a sunny clearing and a weathered woodshed that leaned slightly askew. Split logs stacked chest-high occupied the whole footing of the eccentric edifice. Azog shook his head. The pain faded and his eyes moved from the window to a painting on the wall beside it, a landscape with a wooded horizon interrupted by the silhouette of a sort of tree-person with a beard of lichen.

He was in a bed, covered in blankets, in a room that was spare and clean, except for a table in the far corner that was densely populated with papers and stacks of thickly bound books, some closed, some open to pages spotted with ink and rife with unintelligible scribbles. Closer to him there was a door, slightly ajar, and as he peered into the opening beyond a face appeared.

It was the Man, and at the sight his memories rushed back. They were fully formed, now, but hazy, as if he were experiencing something that had happened to someone else, a story told to him when he was young that had settled in his mind’s eye. Still, the emotional agony was immediate.

 His allies, his _friends._ The other Free Orcs, with whom he’d traveled to an Orc settlement on the eastern slopes of the Misty Mountains. They’d come to bargain, in hopes of a better life for their yet-enslaved brothers and sisters. They were all gone. Cut down, every last one, by a horde of their own kind that did not yet know they had a choice in the matter. He’d seen them go down. He’d fought to save them, fought through the grief and the knowledge that each stroke of his axe took the possibility of freedom from another erstwhile foe, hated that he had to fight Orcs he didn't know to try and save those he did. Their plan had gone wrong. Words had failed. He had failed, had fled when he saw that he alone still stood, when he saw that there was nothing more he could do and no mind he could change, nothing for him now but to hide and hurt and hope.

 And that hope had borne fruit, and here it was, hesitantly opening the door wider.

_“You’re awake. I’m glad….are you in pain?”_

Azog gathered himself and forced his face to relax, swallowed the guttural cry that echoed inside him. _“I am fine. My arm…does not hurt, now, although I feel as if it should.”_

 _“I am fortunate in my friends. I was able to procure a particularly strong painkilling concoction yesterday, without a detailed explanation of why exactly I needed it,”_ the Man volunteered with a rueful grin as he approached the Orc. As he perched on the foot of the bed, though, his face fell. _“But something does pain you.”_

Azog shrugged dismissively, and fought to maintain a bland expression. _“I am as well as can be expected.”_

The Man eyed him skeptically for a moment, then shook his head and smiled. _“Glad to hear it. I’m afraid I was not the most courteous in transporting you here.”_

Genuine curiosity broke into the steady stream of bloody images that replayed themselves relentlessly in his mind’s eye. Azog welcomed the interruption. _“How then did you….?”_

He laughed. _“A cart. Normally I use it for hauling wood, or dirt, or water. My dog, Tulkas, is mighty though, and was equal to the task…save for the uphill parts, where I helped also.”_ He met Azog’s eye. _“Still, I have never seen an Uruk such as you. I am not accustomed to feeling small.”_

He was aware, then, of the fact that his feet hung over the edge of the bed by a good margin. His _bare_ feet. Azog shifted and registered the absence of his leather vest and tasset as well. _“My clothes….”_

 _“Are here. I cleaned the worst of the blood from them,”_ the Man finished. _“I hope I was not remiss in doing so, but the smell…”_ He paused. _“Well, it would have become unpleasant.”_

Azog was suddenly aware of his own scent. _“I’m rather unpleasant myself.”_ He shifted beneath the covers and caught another whiff. _“I have doubtless offended your senses, tark,”_ he offered, but the Man snorted good-naturedly and waved a hand.

 _"It’s_ Fuorn, _friend, and you’ve been asleep two days, so I’ll thank you for not having shat the bed and never mind your smell.”_

“Fuorn,” Azog repeated, committing the name to memory as the unfamiliar combination of vowels straggled over his tongue. _“I thank you for your kindness. I am Azog.”_

 _“I recall,”_ the Man said, without a hint of reproach. _“What serves your needs best now? Are you hungry? Thirsty? Do you wish to rest more?”_

Azog considered. Two days? If Fuorn was to be believed, and he’d been here nearly the whole time, unconscious and vulnerable, maybe compassion _was_ the Man’s real motive. After all, he had almost certainly gone through Azog’s things and observed that he had nothing worth stealing. And as far as he knew, there was no price on his head…..yet. Though there doubtless would be, when the survivors of his most recent encounter reported back to their leader. A white orc, with symmetrical scars….it wouldn't be the first time _that_ tale had been told.

He returned his attention to the present, and to his body. _“Water. Please,“_ he added. Fuorn nodded and stood, retreating from the room, leaving the door wide open this time.  Azog squinted at a slice of domestic life. On a countertop sat a wide-bladed knife and a mound of chopped potatoes, and his mind connected the sight to the soft _chokk chokk_ sound he’d awoken to. A roughly hewn wooden table, cleared but for some folded leather (his own garments, he realized); a rack of cast-iron pots and pans festooned with bundles of dried plants; a half-melted candle in a bracket on the wall.

Suddenly Azog was seeing another half-melted candle, and in the weak light it cast, Rhin was tossing a handful of bird bones and laughing. Rhin, the tip of a sword protruding from his chest. Rhin, his comrade, his friend, a bubble of blood forming at the corner of his mouth as he swayed and fell, and Azog was too far away to catch him before he was lost to sight beneath a sea of oncoming Uruk driven only by the avoidance of pain—

The Man was back, bearing a wooden cup and a resigned expression. _“Stoicism is only a virtue to a certain extent, Azog. There is more of the painkiller, when you want it.”_

 _"I am thirsty,”_ Azog announced, and immediately regretted the note of falsity in his voice. But Fuorn simply nodded and handed him the cup. Azog lifted it to his lips, too glad of the cool water to worry overmuch about the faint tremor in his right arm as he did so. He drank until the vessel was empty, and then lowered it slowly. The Man was watching him.

 _“Better?”_ he asked, and this time Azog thought there was a hint of fake cheer in its voice as well. But he nodded. Decisively. Perhaps it was time to exit this increasingly unlikely situation.

_“Better. And thank you. But I have perhaps taken advantage of your kindness. Let me gather my things, and I will—“_

_“You are one of them. The Free Orcs.”_ The Man stated this flatly, but his eyebrows were raised as he leaned against the doorframe. Azog concealed his surprise and set the cup aside as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, carefully lifting the bedcovers aside and setting his feet on the floor. He was weak still, but the dizziness was gone.

_“I am, and I must—“_

_“I saw what happened,”_ Fuorn said impassively, and Azog paused, waiting.

 _“It’s only you, now. Where will you go? How will you get there? Uruk, what do you want more, your pride, or freedom for your people? I saw you stand firm until there was nothing more to stand for. I cannot understand your loss. But I want you to live to make change another day.”_ The Man looked up at him. _“You are what the other slaves hoped for. When I was under Dol Guldur._

 _'Some of us were of the Free Races, yes. But most of those I labored beside were Uruk, too. And they were good. Kind. They taught me and shielded me and shared with me, even when I was too weak to do my share in the mines. And I am ashamed to say it, but they probably suffered for me as well when it was discovered that I had escaped.”_ He shifted, straightened. _“I see you trembling now, when you try to stand. You are not yet well. Stay, and let me do what I can for you in the name of those I could not help. Please. I will not try to stop you from leaving, but on the oath of alliance I made to you, I swear that I mean no harm. Let me help you.”_

Fuorn’s voice rose as he spoke, and when he finished, a long moment of silence echoed in the little room. Finally, the Man sighed, and bowed his head. _“Whatever you wish, Azog. I should not burden you with my own regrets.”_  He turned and left the room again, and momentarily the chopping sounds resumed.

Azog resettled himself on the edge of the mattress and was still for a time.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still getting the hang of the formatting here. 
> 
> Also yes, Azog is naked for the entirety of this chapter. However, nudity is not inherently sexual in Orc culture, and Fuorn knows this well enough to more or less ignore it.

When he finally rose and made his way hesitantly into the next room, Azog saw Fuorn still standing at the long wooden countertop, back to him, now slicing something else with a different, more flexible knife. Fish, if his nose were telling him true. The Man did not turn, but he did tap the blade clean against the butcher block and set it aside before speaking.

 _“Forgive me, Azog. I need not have spoken so strongly. You must do what you see fit.”_ He gestured toward the table with a hand that glimmered faintly, dusted with a scattering of tiny silver scales. _“Your things are here.”_

The orc gathered up his leathers and boots, then contemplated the Man’s back and his rich, soft braid again for a moment. He wondered if it got hot under all that hair. _“I have considered your words,”_ he offered, and now Fuorn turned to face him, hitching his thumbs into his belt.

_“I am unused to receiving kindness. I am humbled at the hospitality you have shown me, and I do not know that I feel especially worthy of it when the loss of so many of my comrades weighs on me so heavily.”_

The Man nodded solemnly, and he went on. _“To return to what is left of my tribe will take many days on foot, and I do not relish the thought of relating to them what has happened to their friends and family. However, it is a journey I must make. They should not be left to wonder what has happened, and certainly though this has been a terrible blow, we must regroup. As long as there are Uruk under the thrall of the Eye, there must be more raids. More attempts. Certainly word is beginning to spread among the enslaved; I have seen it on other occasions.”_ He stood up straighter. His voice sounded stronger than he felt. _“Whole tribes have laid down arms and joined us….the Free Orcs are growing. I will see the day when there is no more bloodshed between my people.”_

 _“You are driven,”_ the Man remarked.

 _“Aye, but not stupid,”_ Azog added. _“You are right that I have not yet regained my strength. It is late in the day, is it not?”_

Fuorn glanced toward the windows along the front of the house. _“Late afternoon. There are perhaps four more hours to sunset.”_

Azog cleared his throat. _“Then if I may avail myself of your oath, I will spend this night here, and set out tomorrow. It is true that I am still weak, and I cannot be intercepted on my way home. Not when I am the last to bear word of these happenings to the Council of Elders.”_

In his mind’s eye he could see their faces, grave and grief-stricken. And then he was seeing other faces, the faces of his comrades, some wracked with pain and others simply with surprise as they died around him; he could hear their cries again, Rhin, Ghaazeh, Avij, Murz, others--everything had gone wrong and he was helpless, surrounded by orcs with dirty weapons and meager clothes, sores and protruding ribs, pity and rage flooding the chambers of his heart in a seething mess—

Heat prickled behind his eyes. Azog blinked and exhaled slowly.

 _"I am sorry,”_ Fuorn mumbled, and closed the space between them to lay a hand on his good arm.

 _“Things went wrong,”_ the Orc told him, struggling to keep his voice even. _“Somehow. We did not intend to surprise them, intended to speak with them, but….then there was no time and….”_ He shut his eyes tight and focused on his breathing. There would be time to grieve in private, time to sift through the chaos of the failed attempt at diplomacy and to form a proper account of what had happened.

Gentle hands took his clothing from his arms, and set it back on the table. _“I…”_ the Man sighed in concern, and hesitantly reached for him. _“I wish I knew what to say,”_ he confessed, and Azog stood stock-still as he was carefully embraced.

The top of Fuorn’s head just reached his shoulder, and his arms could barely encircle Azog’s broad chest, but somehow the Orc felt as if he were the fragile one, as if he might shatter if the Man decided to squeeze too hard.

 He didn’t, though, and slowly Azog brought his intact arm up to rest across Fuorn’s back, relaxing a little into the Man's touch even as his mind swirled and shouted and showed him over and over again the blood, the contorted faces of friends and foes, and the sight of his own hand reaching up from the mud as if beckoning him to come back and retrieve it. As if in sympathy, his wound, and the ghost limb beyond, began to ache furiously once again.

It was the feeling of Fuorn’s body tensing that drew him from the storm of memories, and he realized his nails were digging into the Man’s shoulder hard enough to draw tiny beads of blood. Red blood. Startled, he relaxed his grip and started to apologize but the Man made a _ssh_ sound and drew him closer.

 _“It’s all right. Just let it pass,”_ and Azog did.

He swallowed the thickness in his throat and let his recollections swarm over his vision, taking it over completely, until at long last his mind showed him the same image twice, and then he drew back from the onslaught and the emotions it carried. The phantom pain waned. Long moments passed, and he continued to picture the grief and confusion as a tide that slowly receded until he was stranded in his body again, in a strange place with a very unusual but kind Man absentmindedly rubbing his back in slow circles with a calloused thumb.

The orc scrubbed the wetness from his face with the heel of his remaining hand, and Fuorn released him cautiously before stepping back, eyes trained downward to allow him some dignity as he swiped at his flat nose a few times and sniffed.

 _“I don’t know as that was entailed in the oath of alliance you swore,”_ Azog said roughly, and was rewarded with a crooked smile.


	4. Chapter 4

Fully dressed now, Azog sat astride a bench at the wooden table while delicious smells permeated the room. His stomach had begun to twist and rumble in response, and though he was of half a mind to help himself to the stew simmering over the coals in the fireplace, done or not, he suspected Fuorn would see it as a slight to his cooking. The Man clearly appreciated food, Azog thought, recalling the efficient but exacting way he’d prepared and combined the ingredients that currently tempted him.

Now, though, Fuorn sat cross-legged on the floor nearby, atop a haphazard pile of clothes and blankets. Lazily, he stroked the thick neck fur of an enormous, brown-and-black dog. Azog had better understood how he must have been moved while unconscious when the huge beast had padded up to him for an investigative sniff.

Stocky and deep-chested, with a blocky head and a thick plume of a tail, Tulkas stood nearly to his own hip. The orc watched as the Man reached out to scratch one of its semi-erect ears, and the dog leaned into the touch, dark eyes narrowing in pleasure.

When at last Fuorn pronounced it ready, the stew tasted every bit as good as it smelled, and Azog suspected he might have eaten it far too quickly without the Man’s conversation. He nearly burned his tongue as it was, and felt the tightness inside him ease as his body welcomed his first meal in days—and a heartier one than he’d had in months. Despite the fact that he couldn’t fit his knees under the table, built as it was for Men, he was extraordinarily comfortable as twilight deepened outside and they sat together, telling tales long after their bowls were empty.

Azog learned that Fuorn had been captured by slavers at the age of 15 from his village in the Forodwaith, and was unsure quite how long he’d been in the mines (there was little way of marking time underground), although he estimated it to be at least four years. The Man didn’t go into great detail about those times, though, and instead regaled Azog with more recent, and humorous, stories of his time here and his trials and travails as a lone homesteader. He’d settled in the valley nearly seven winters ago, following his escape from Dol Guldur and a season spent wandering the Anduin valley.

 _“…so I stayed, and lived in the tunnel we met in while I built this place,”_ it said, smiling ruefully. _“I use it as a root cellar now. Perhaps I’m a bit isolated, with Lothlorien four days south and the closest village half a day away, but I can’t say I mind the quiet. And as Aul_ _ë is my witness, I’d like to thank the Dwarves for their fine work.”_

Apparently the building Fuorn inhabited was constructed from what remained of a foundation set into the lower slope of the Misty Mountains, overlooking the wide floodplain of the Gladden River. Three of the walls, and the floor, were stone, excavated from the bedrock itself and polished finely. The roof and front wall had been constructed by the Man himself, upon finding the land both uninhabited and fertile.

 _“And the hot spring…well, I’d never live anywhere else.”_ A few hundred yards from the house, and up a set of steep, narrow stairs, boiling water spilled from the heart of the mountain and was corralled in a series of stone basins, cooling gradually, before spilling over into a small creek that ran to the river below. _“Knowing even in winter I can always find warmth is…somehow quite a comfort after years of being cold, underground.”_

 _“One I would like to see,”_ Azog added. In the ramshackle camps of the Free Orcs, nestled among the foothills of Gundabad to the north, bathing was a brief and unpleasantly cold necessity.

 _“Certainly,”_ Fuorn assured him, but the conversation turned then to Azog’s own exploits and in keeping with the lighthearted mood, he sketched only briefly over his own early years in Gorgoroth before turning to newer and happier memories.

Fuorn broke out a bottle of thick, dark beer, and they shared it between them as night fell. He listened as Azog spoke of his first night under stars undimmed by fog, nearly twenty years ago now; his many days on the road, wandering lost through the Rhovanion in search of others of his kind; his eventual encounter with a pair of older Free Orcs in Esgaroth. His arrival to Gundabad. The birth of a new friend’s child, the first to come into the world without ever knowing the Eye’s rancid gaze.  The explosion of a long-repressed culture into workmanship and agriculture and trade, song and scholasticism. The creation of a Council to unite and guide the settlements that sprang up where the Grey and Misty Mountains intersected.

He felt his chest fill with pride as he recounted the change he’d seen, so much change already in only a generation and so much more to come. Azog was young, by the standards of the Orcs, and he spoke of what remained to be done, what he hoped to see within his lifetime. He was not naïve enough to think it would be easy, that he had seen the end of tragedy, or that the minds of the Free Races would be quickly changed. But he felt it in his bones when he proclaimed, _“There will be a great nation in the North once again. I will live to see the day when all Uruk are free, and their bravery and integrity is known across Middle Earth.”_

Fuorn’s smile was wide and bright in the glow of the open hearth.

 _“I believe it will be so,”_ the Man replied, and raised his mug. _“We are seeing the beginnings of a new Age. May it be kinder to us all.”_

They drank to that.


	5. Chapter 5

When at last there was silence, save the pop and crackle of the fire, night was upon them. Azog watched Fuorn’s green-gold eyes glitter in the flickering light, as the Man himself watched Tulkas stir in his sleep atop the heap of blankets before the hearth. The dog sighed loudly in contentment, and Azog grinned in response. He felt similarly.

_“Did you still wish to bathe, then,”_ Fuorn inquired, _“or shall we turn in?”_

The Orc was pleasantly tired, but he glanced down at the blood still crusted under his nails and in the divots of the scars that adorned his thighs. _“Yes, I would like to see this Dwarven wonder,”_ he replied. Fuorn drummed his palms on the table and pushed himself out of his seat.

_“It is wonderful indeed. Here.”_ Fuorn rummaged for a moment in a cupboard and handed him a cake of soap. _“Let us enjoy.”_

The air was crisp and the sky clear as they exited the cabin. Long blue shadows danced under the trees, leaves crunching under each step. The moonlight was easily enough for Azog to see by, and even adequate (it seemed) for the poorer night vision of Men, although the grace with which his host navigated the uneven ground might have been equally due to familiarity. Fuorn led him past the freshly-turned earth of a garden plot and into the woods. They skirted a rock outcropping and then began to climb, the narrow, worn stone stairs they navigated switching back and forth over an increasingly steep and rocky slope.

The view of the valley expanded as they climbed, until Azog could see the sparkling ribbon of the Gladden River itself unfold far below them. He appreciated the excuse to slow his pace and take in the view; his still-weakened body did not rise to the sudden exertion as quickly as it otherwise might, and his breathing was a bit more labored than he would have liked when he reached Fuorn a few minutes later. The Man was leaning on an intricately carved, waist-high stone balustrade and looking out over the landscape below. Behind him, the staircase opened up to a broad flagstone courtyard of sorts. Carved into the steep rock face at the far side were a series of troughs and raised pools that glimmered and hissed and steamed.

He only had a moment to appreciate the workmanship of the ancient baths before his nose brought him up short.

Gorgoroth. He could smell it. The acrid stench was weak, and it passed with the breeze, but in his mind it stayed and engulfed him and some part of him was stopped, dead still, at the top of the stairs while another part of him was back in Mordor.

He was small again, and each laborious step had him squelching nearly knee deep in thick, whitish mud, but he had to go _faster,_ the hunger in his belly consuming him and he was  already late, knew that the rancid slabs of unidentified meat thrown into the slave pen would almost certainly be gone by the time he made it up and out of this trench where, hidden from the guards, he’d been tracing geometric designs in the muck with a blackened stick when he realized the sun was going down—he had to hurry, to squeeze his child-body  back through that gap in the fence to scrabble for whatever was left with hollow-eyed strangers that were bigger and stronger but--

\--his mind was outpacing his body and then he tripped, and Azog was down in the mud on all fours struggling to disentangle his foot from something buried in the mud and he turned and yanked his leg free but what came with it was leathery and black, and he stifled a cry, it was an _arm_ and it was attached to a _body_ that shifted in the mud with a squelching sound and he was backing away and turning to scrabble up out of the ditch with his heart hammering in his throat—

His heart really was hammering in his throat, but it was pain that brought him back out of the memory again, pain in his knees and a sharper ache in his left arm. He heard Fuorn curse sharply and then the Man was crouching in front of him, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder.

_“What happened? Are you all right? You just—“_ the Man abruptly shut up when Azog gestured violently at him. The Orc looked about rapidly and then exhaled slowly.

_“The smell. It made me remember,”_ he growled, and rose to his feet. Fuorn remained on the ground, but shifted to look up  at him.

_“Remember? The smell?....”_ His confusion was plain as Azog stalked to the balustrade and set his good hand on the stone, fighting down nausea and frustration. He sniffed, and there it was again, but this time the faintly rotten scent was just that, and he was all right. Mordor was many miles and many years away. He was grown, and as safe as he could be this far from Gundabad. Trying to ignore the embarrassment that coiled in his gut, he turned back to Fuorn.

The Man’s face was resolving into understanding. _“It’s the_ sulfur _, isn’t it? That’s what you mean. The sort of rotten smell.”_

“Sulfur.” The word tickled at Azog’s brain. _“Yes. I do not know the word for it in Uruk. It is like…like eggs, bad eggs.”_

_“Yes,”_ Fuorn nodded. _“It comes out of the earth, here. See?”_ He swept his hand around to encompass the mountainside, and Azog saw above the haze of steam other vents in the earth, higher up, that belched thick billowing clouds into the dark sky. _“It comes from deep within the mountains. The heat, and the smell. I am sorry, Azog. I did not—“_

_“It is all right,”_ the Orc interjected. _“How would you have known? You have never been near the dark lands.”_

_“I have not. But I know how a smell can bring back memories. I seldom cook red meat, for that reason.”_ The Man grimaced and stood. _“Too many accidents in the mines. Hot ore is even less forgiving than an angry overseer.”_

Azog nodded, feeling somewhat less ashamed. He contemplated the water that gurgled from a crevice in the stone and cascaded from pool to pool, and relegated the past to the back of his mind firmly. Fuorn watched him fumble in his vest pocket and extract the lump of soap.

_“Enough of that,”_ the Orc said firmly, and toed off one boot, then the other, newly glad that his footwear involved no laces or buckles. He wasn’t sure yet how he’d manage those one-handed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup, nudity again. Still no smut, though. (Wait for it...)  
> Also, Fuorn comes out.

Azog hadn’t meant to stare, but when Fuorn dragged his tunic over his head, the Orc was a moment too late in looking away.

_“….yes?”_ The Man asked as he stared back evenly, turning the garment right-side-out again and setting it aside.

“ _Oh—no, I…..you have scars, too,”_ Azog explained, looking away awkwardly  and passing a hand over his own torso to show what he meant.

_“Ah. Yes, I suppose so. I had breasts,”_ the Man replied steadily, settling himself onto the edge of one of the stone basins. _“Thankfully, again, I am fortunate in my friends.”_

Breasts? _“You’re a…a bearer? A Woman?”_ Azog’s voice came out a bit strangled, and he chided himself. He wasn’t sure why it mattered. Perhaps he just found the whole concept stranger than he realized. Orc females did not _have_ breasts unless they were actively nursing young; he’d always found the pronounced sexual dimorphism of humans slightly odd.

Fuorn chuckled. _“You thought I was a_ Man _?  Interesting…usually, strangers just look confused and avoid formal titles.”_ He (she?) swung one leg over into the water, sighed happily, and followed with the other.

_“I…have been thinking of you as ‘he’, yes,”_ Azog admitted, and as he perched on the edge of the pool himself, he was mentally equating the sight of the dark triangle of hair at Fuorn’s groin, plainly penis-less, with his mental concept of the Man (Woman?).

_“Are there not words, in Uruk, for an individual whose sex is unknown?”_ Fuorn inquired, sliding slowly into the water. _“Or who chooses not to identify as a sire or a bearer?”_

_“Aye,”_ Azog acknowledged, and likewise submersed one foot into the steaming pool. It was perfect; deliciously hot, but not scalding, this far from the boiling spring that roiled from the earth. _“We say ‘they’”,_ and he enunciated the neutral pronoun clearly in his native tongue.

_“Yes, and that is what I am,”_ Fuorn said simply. He ( _they_ ) reached up and pulled their braid over their shoulder, setting aside the leather thong that held it in place. _“It is another thing for which I have the Uruk to thank_.” They began to comb the hair out with their fingers, starting at the bottom and working upwards. It unraveled easily in their hands, and Azog watched, intrigued, as the silky brown strands swung free. _“There is no concept among my people of one who is neither sire nor bearer,_ Man _or_ Woman. _There is no in-between, no ‘other’. Did you not wonder why I was wandering outside at night, alone, a child, when the slavers came to my village?”_

Azog shook his head. Truthfully, he had not.

_“Let us say my parents did not approve of my un-_ Womanly _behavior,”_ Fuorn joked, but there was hurt in their face as they shook out their freed locks and slid deeper into the water. _“They put me out of the house for it eventually.”_ They shrugged. _“Not long after, I was captured. And truly in all my years under Dol Guldur there was little time to think further on the subject. Mostly I was just hungry. And tired.”_

The water was only waist-deep to Azog. He bent at the knees to submerse himself more fully, raising his left arm high to keep the bandaged wound dry.

_“Oh----yes, good.  Keep that from getting wet, if you can,”_ Fuorn interrupted themself, nodding to Azog’s stump. They picked up the soap from where he’d set it on the lip of the basin, and worked it between their hands to create a lather. This they brought to their face and scrubbed briefly before disappearing beneath the surface momentarily.

Azog was still ruminating when they surfaced with a sputter, scraping their hair back off their forehead.

_“So you learned of the nakhzej.”_ Un-sexed. _“And….”_ He wondered whether Fuorn experienced the ghost pain. Phantom breasts. He thought better of asking.

_“Yes.”_ They reached for the soap again. _“And here I am. Stand up.”_

Azog did so. The chill of the night air on his upper body contrasted pleasantly now with the heat of the water. He chuckled briefly when he noticed that he was steaming. _“I am like a spirit,”_ he exclaimed and swayed slightly, raising his good arm to watch the vapors curl off his skin and drift upward.

Fuorn laughed softly also as they maneuvered around behind him and attacked his back and shoulders with the soap, making their way down his right arm as well and carefully inspecting his hand for any last caked blood. _“A great white ghost. There. Reckon you’ll manage that just fine on your own soon enough,”_ they added, releasing him and plopping the bar into his own hand.

In truth Azog wasn’t quite sure yet how he’d manage to wash his remaining hand himself, never mind another thousand mundane tasks he’d never had to consider before. And less mundane ones, too—how to carry a shield? Perhaps he could strap it to his stump somehow. Maybe a prosthetic of some sort could be made….and his balance would certainly be affected as well….

His thoughts ranged over the possibilities as he absentmindedly contorted to lather one leg and then the other, but when he looked up he saw Fuorn floating lazily on their back, eyes closed and arms wide open. It gave him pause.

Their hair floated around them like a halo, undulating slowly just beneath the surface. Azog thought it was a beautiful sight, as much as he didn’t imagine himself any sort of aesthetic authority. The moon’s reflection, shivering on the surface of the water, the wisps of steam rising, and Fuorn’s muscled limbs drifting in the dark. The _nakzej_ was sturdy in the way of their ancestors, the hill-men, with wide hips and broad shoulders, and deeply tanned above the waist (hours laboring in the sun, Azog supposed, thinking of the stack of cordwood outside the cabin). A single, stark tattoo adorned their left arm, a finger-wide band of black around the bicep, and two small steel hoops glinted from their right ear. Waves of gooseflesh rippled across their torso where it was exposed to the air, but their face was serene as they kicked slowly to stay in place.

When at last their eyes flickered open and they righted themselves, Azog was clean to his satisfaction and reclining against the side of the bath.  He looked away from the landscape that rolled out before them and saw Fuorn smiling gently.

_“Such beauty,”_ they remarked, settling beside him. _“Thank you for sharing this with me.”_

Azog nodded, and then found himself stifling a yawn. The _nakhzej_ grinned.

_“Aye, me too.”_ They stood and gathered their hair, twisting and coiling it to squeeze out the water. _“Let’s go home.”_


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> many much innuendo wow
> 
> Also some asides on the creation myths of the Orcs.

The fire had burned low in the hearth when they returned to the cabin, damp and sleepy. Tulkas hadn’t stirred, though, and Fuorn chided the dog jokingly as they stepped over him to bank the coals. A pronounced exhale was the only response.

_“Such a difficult life.”_ They rolled their eyes, but grinned at the enormous beast fondly. _“Come. One last thing,”_ motioning to Azog to have a seat.

He gritted his teeth as Fuorn gingerly unwrapped the bandage from his wound. The slight pulling sensation as the cloth parted from his flesh was not quite pain, but it was deeply unsettling, somehow. He was almost afraid to look at what was left of his forearm, but when he did, it was not the ragged mass of muscle and bone he recalled.

The stump ended cleanly, bisected by a long row of sutures that held his skin together over the wound. No underlying flesh was visible. Fuorn must have noticed his surprise as they finished scrubbing their hands at a basin in the corner.

_“My first time giving stitches, and you didn’t leave me much to work with. I’m afraid the scarring will likely be extensive.”_ The _nakhzej_ folded themself onto the floor beside him, setting down a stack of cloths and a bowl of water, boiled and still steaming.

The Orc thought of the suppurating injuries he’d seen on new arrivals to Gundabad and of his already-numerous scars. Certainly better to have such a sizeable wound closed, however amateur the job, than to leave it exposed. It would surely heal faster. _“Not bad, for a first try,”_ he reassured them.

_“I received good advice.”_ Fuorn produced a small clay pot, which they set aside for the moment. _“My friend---she did this--”_ indicating their chest, _“is a healer of some renown. Folk travel far to see her in the village nearby. I made the trip in one day, while you slept. She told me what to do.”_ They wetted a cloth in the water and wrung it out, let it cool a moment, before turning their attention to his arm. Cautiously they cleaned around the stitches without disturbing them, dried the site, and then removed the lid from the little pot. A pungent smell made Azog’s nostrils flare. _“That is….strong.”_

_“It has to be,”_ Fuorn apologized, and applied a dollop of the thick green unguent gently over the wound itself. Azog braced himself for stinging, but there was none. Instead, a feeling of warmth pervaded the area and he smiled as they began to re-wrap his stump in a fresh bandage. _“Oh,”_ he sighed. _“That is a powerful healing.”_

_“It will kill the pain, and keep the wound from becoming infected. Take it with you when you go. Are you ready to sleep?”_

_“Aye,”_ Azog replied, looking forward to the glorious comfort of the bed in the room beyond.

_“Excellent. Sleep well. Let me know if you should need anything.”_ Fuorn turned to Tulkas. _“Shift your furry arse,”_ they commanded, and when the dog begrudgingly stood, they began rearranging the pile of blankets and clothes on the floor before the fireplace.

Azog was already into the bedroom and fumbling with his belt when he figured it out and turned around. _“Are you…sleeping here?”_ he asked, indicating the spot on the floor where the _nakhzej_ crouched, shaking out a quilt.

_“Yes,”_ they replied cheerily. _“If this fellow will allow me to share, anyway.”_ Tulkas was sitting not an arm’s length away, contemplating the goings-on.

_“I….oh. I did not realize there was but the one bed, somehow.”_

_“It’s quite all right,”_ Fuorn assured him. _“It’s not often I have guests.”_

_“No, you have done quite enough to make me welcome. Allow me to sleep out here tonight.”_ He truly did relish the thought of that bed, after so many nights on the ground, but his sense of honor was prodding at him. They’d done so much already, so much more than they were obligated to do by the oath they’d sworn to help him.

_“I insist,”_ they said, as the quilt settled back onto the floor, and Tulkas immediately padded over to lie down on it. _“You should be well-rested for your journey. I will be fine here.”_ They swatted at the dog playfully and struggled to extract another blanket from beneath its weight.

_“I’m not all that large,”_ Azog equivocated, although his statement was somewhat undermined by the need to stoop to pass back through the doorway. _“We can share. There’s no need for you to be on the floor.”_ A compromise. Surely Fuorn would accept that.

But they were laughing and shaking their head at the same time. _“Truly, Azog, I don’t require thanks. At least, not that kind.”_

He blinked at the insinuation. The Orc had heard of the rather roundabout ways in which humans invited each other to have sex, but Fuorn had thus far seemed rather more direct than most of their kind. He hadn’t meant….

_“Not that you aren’t...absolutely beautiful, Azog. But you should not feel as if you owe me that, or anything else.”_

He’d been frowning thoughtfully, not out of disappointment, but the _nakhzej s_ eemed to have misinterpreted that. Still—beautiful? Him?

The unexpected compliment was startling.

Beautiful? He could perhaps be considered striking, among his own people. Certainly his appearance was unusual. Standing head and shoulders above most other orcs, his silver-white skin and icy blue eyes denoted him as ‘other’. And his scars, which were half battle wounds and half decorative, announced him as a veteran and a victor, despite his youth. But all that came with a price.

A price that had made him respected, but not often liked. Azog’s looks, his size and stature, marked him as _bagronkhai,_ “those of the pits”. It was true that he was (as far as he knew) one of the last living Orcs born from the earth itself, hatched from a pit in the mud by the old Master rather than the loins of a bearer. No parents; no family. He had been _made,_ not borne, and that meant he was different, important. Among his own, he was still unusual.

According to legend, to what the Orcs knew of their own history, the first Ancestors had all been _bagronkhai._ That was how the Eye had created their people. By burying the twisted seeds of the _Kvehndigh,_ the Elves, into the mud, letting them spoil, and then retrieving what they had become, a new race was brought unto Middle Earth.

Those Ancestors had been fertile, and they had reproduced mightily. Ever since, the Orcs had propagated themselves, except only in times of great war and when new blood was required. New individuals, with new capacities, new qualities that the Eye deemed useful—and Azog was one of them. He was unsure what new or useful capacities he’d been created to embody; in Gundabad resided many Orcs that were wiser or more skilled than himself in any number of arts or sciences. Perhaps it was simply for his size and strength. But when, after a short, unremarkable childhood of hardship and want, he’d been summoned to train with Sauron’s elite guard, he’d received somewhat better treatment than the _snaga_ —the commoners that populated the slave pits and worked the mines and fields.

That marginally better treatment (more food, more water, somewhat less squalid housing) had earned him the hatred of the other Orcs in the Dark Lands. Among his people in the north, he was not hated; for the most part he was just another Free Orc, save his moderate renown as a soldier.

Yet…he was still _different,_ in an unavoidably visible way that mostly manifested in his personal life. He’d few close friends, which had made his recent losses all the more potent, and fewer partners—he’d only taken a handful of lovers in his years outside Mordor. Feeling admired or appreciated simply for what he w _as,_ rather than for the things he _did,_ was something Azog had only experienced a few times.

_“Thank you,_ Fuorn,” was his quiet reply.

The human smiled at him, and sat to remove their boots, without saying more. Perhaps they simply felt they’d said enough? Or they were waiting for him to take the lead, to make some choice he didn’t know he’d been offered. The silence stretched for a few seconds and Azog wondered at his own discomfort, before clearing his throat.

_“I, ah…you are handsome also.”_ It wasn’t untrue, and the Orc felt as if he should repay such a compliment, but this was unfamiliar territory. Fuorn just nodded their thanks and toed off one boot, then the other.

It was something about the roughness of their actions that clued him in. _“Oh.”_

The _nakhzej_ glanced up at the surprise in his voice, and the hesitancy in their face was clear, confirming his realization.

_“You… want that.”_

_“To have sex with you? Yes. Frankly, I do.”_ Fuorn said, shrugging. _“But I would not want you to agree to it simply because you feel beholden to me.”_

That was more straightforward; Azog was back on familiar ground. _“In truth that was not what I had in mind when I suggested we share the bed. I merely wanted to spare you the discomfort of the floor, because certainly, I do feel grateful for your continued kindness.”_

Fuorn blinked. _“My apologies, then, for misinterpreting your words—“_

_“But,”_ he continued, and he was imagining them in the moonlight again, and the softness of their hair on his fingertips, _“I appreciate you also in more senses than that.”_

They absorbed that for a moment, head cocked, before they met his eye, and the smile that spread slowly across their face brought heat into his belly. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, it took me long enough but  
> S M U T T I M E   
> aw yes

Azog let Fuorn come to him.

They unfolded themself deliberately, slowly, rising from the floor, and there was light and hunger in their face as they approached him where he stood in the doorway to the bedroom beyond.

He wasn’t sure what to expect, but opened his arms as the human drew near, and they walked into them without hesitation, embracing him tightly. Questing fingertips tracked the scars across the breadth of his back, and he cupped the back of their skull gently in his hand, marveling again at the softness of their still-damp hair as it tumbled loosely over their shoulders.

The _nakhzej_ exhaled slowly and the heat of their breath on his chest was delicious. He shivered slightly and held them tighter, stooping a bit to rest his chin on the top of their head. Fuorn smelled faintly of fresh air and wood smoke, and the Orc squeezed his eyes shut to savor the warmth of their body against his.

For a time, the two simply stood like that, drinking in the sensations, hands wandering slowly over each others’ backs and shoulders.

 Finally, Fuorn drew back slightly to gaze up at him for a moment. _“Too tall,”_ they chuckled, and then playfully pushed him toward the bed.

He shuffled backward obligingly a few paces, then let out a sharp laugh as they bowled him straight over onto his back, and he’d hardly thumped down onto the mattress before they climbed astride him, kneeling over his waist and cupping his face in their hands. The laughter faded from their eyes and was replaced by a burning tenderness as they leaned down.

_“You really are lovely,”_ they told him, tracing the curve of his brow, the angle of his cheekbone, the corner of his jaw, their face just inches from his own. The intimacy of their fingertips on his face, and the intensity of their gaze, was almost overwhelming and Azog resisted the urge to close his eyes or turn his head away.

_“Do you know that?”_ they asked, their brow creasing. _“Do you?”_

_“I feel so,”_ he breathed, and that seemed to satisfy the human, who bent closer still.

_“Good,”_ Fuorn whispered into his tattered ear, and the Orc’s stomach tightened with desire as they kissed him in the fashion of his people, pressing their cheek to his. He groaned quietly when their lips grazed the side of his neck, and he felt their smile grow. _“This is good?”_

He nodded, and they did it again, nuzzling him gently and dragging their mouth over the sensitive place beneath his ear. Azog grunted, gripping the _nakhzej’s_ thigh with his good hand, and returned the favor. Their skin tasted slightly salty as he trailed his tongue over their throat, felt the pulse racing there, and a new, sharp smell that must be human arousal greeted him as Fuorn exhaled sharply.

_“Please,”_ they encouraged, fingertips digging into his shoulders, and he drew back his lips and sank his teeth into the muscle at the base of their neck. Not quite hard enough to pierce their skin, so much more delicate than that of an Orc, but hard enough to make Fuorn growl and tense atop him.

Azog was aware of his erection, then, pressed against the human’s groin, and they were, too, because they shifted slightly to grind against him.

_“Ah, ah…you…..”_ Words seemed to fail them, but they seized his vest and pulled it open roughly, laying his chest and belly bare and descending on him in a fury of bites and kisses, working their way from the base of his throat to his navel before straightening up to strip off their own tunic. Azog sat up, careful not to dislodge them from his lap, and wrapped both arms, whole and injured, around the _nakhzej’s_ waist, pressing his face against their chest, lapping and nibbling at the warm skin.

He was rewarded with a moan and Fuorn grabbed the back of his neck roughly. They dragged the vest from his arms and tossed it aside, then shoved him back down onto the bed and began struggling with the buckles of his leathers. The Orc watched them fumble for a second, then batted their hands away to undo them himself, defter with one hand than they’d been with two.

_“Here,”_ and then Azog was naked, and Fuorn grinned and palmed his pale, veined cock lightly.

_“Well. You’re certainly…proportional,”_ they chuckled, slipping their thumb across its head, smearing the bead of precum there around the tip. The Orc felt his lips draw back involuntarily as he hissed with pleasure, and they bared their teeth in answer, stroking him a bit harder. He was nearly alarmed by the intensity with which his body responded.  _“This is good?”_ they asked again, and this time he found words.

_“Maybe too good—nnghh—,”_ and he sat up, flipping Fuorn off his lap and onto their back. The _nakhzej_ was immediately wriggling free of their breeches, shucking them to the floor just as he rolled onto all fours (threes, he reminded himself, nearly overbalancing) atop the now-naked human.

Shifting back onto his haunches, Azog planted his hand squarely on their chest, his blunt, weathered fingers spanning nearly the entire breadth of their torso. _“You are soft,”_ he murmured, dragging his palm over the curves of Fuorn’s belly and waist, cupping a hip and then a buttock as they squirmed beneath him.

_“And you are not,”_ they replied, straining up to rake their fingertips over his own scarred chest and shoulders, before interlacing at the back of his neck and dragging him down onto his elbows. _“Like living stone….”_ and again their faces were only a hand-span apart, Fuorn’s eyes sparking in the dimness before closing the gap.

They kissed him again, in their own fashion this time, lips ghosting over his warmly. Azog was unsure of himself; he’d seen this done (at a distance) but was caught between inexperience and caution. _“My teeth—be careful,”_ he warned, and felt rather than saw Fuorn grin.

_“I will,”_ they whispered against his cheek before sucking his lower lip in, tugging and nibbling at it. The Orc’s breath hitched at the sensation, and they released him with a slight _pop_ before returning to explore his mouth slowly with their own, their warm tongue never quite breaching his lips. Despite his unfamiliarity, Azog marveled at the immediacy of wetness and velvety warmth. He didn’t know as he preferred this sort of kiss, but he could certainly see why Men seemed so fond of it. Hesitantly, he parted his teeth and let his own tongue meet Fuorn’s on neutral ground. A sharp exhale was the response, and the _nakhzej_ tightened their grip on the back of his skull, back arching to press their body against his.

When they drew apart, Orc and human were both breathing heavily. Azog wasted no time in scooping Fuorn up and depositing them unceremoniously higher up the mattress, eliciting a throaty chuckle from them as he parted their legs and settled between them.

_“As if I were a delicate flower, eh?”_

_“Well,”_ Azog drawled, contemplating the view. It wasn’t a bad comparison. Beneath the triangle of dark, curly pubic hair, Fuorn’s rosy inner lips protruded slightly beyond the outer, a sheen of slickness just visible there. He pressed his cheek to the inside of their thigh and his palm to their mons. The _nakhzej_ rolled their hips slightly against the touch, their clit ( _there_ it was, smaller than an Orc’s, it seemed) peeking from between the folds.

He let them grind against the flat of his hand a bit longer before licking his fingertips and experimentally circling the little nub a few times. Fuorn grunted and spread their legs wider, sitting on up their elbows to observe as he leaned in.

_“That’s good, try—hmm…try a little harder? That—_ oh!” Their head dropped back when he obeyed, and he watched their chest rise and fall faster as he stroked more firmly. _“Yes, that. Do that.”_

Azog smiled to himself at the hint of imperiousness in their voice, and bent to the task with a will, watching as the human’s cunt slowly darkened and wetness began to spread along the slit. When Fuorn raised their face to his again, their cheeks had reddened as well, and their eyes were hazy under furrowed brows. _“Will you put a finger inside me?”_

The Orc acquiesced unhurriedly. He massaged Fuorn’s opening gently before sliding his forefinger inside, just to the first knuckle, then back out, massaging again, slipping in to the second knuckle, and back out, teasing them briefly before steadily inserting it fully.

_“Feels right?”_ he inquired, and took the _nakhzej’s_ satisfied rumble as agreement. Without withdrawing, he crooked his finger, and felt ridged flesh and then a startling _contraction_ as their whole body seemed to draw in around him.

_“Aaaaaannh—that’s it,”_ Fuorn gritted, cupping Azog’s jaw with one hand while absentmindedly fisting the other in their own hair.

He’d been absorbed, focused on the other’s enjoyment, but the Orc felt his own desire stir again deep in his gut at the sight. They _were_ terribly handsome, especially coming undone like this, eyes scrunched shut and thighs trembling slightly; he was encouraged and dipped his head to lick carefully at their neglected clit.

A stream of curses in a mix of Westron and Black Speech spilled from Fuorn’s lips. _“Orom_ _ë! Careful…teeth…”_

Azog lifted his chin. _“Do not presume to tell_ me _…”_ he chided, and got a lopsided grin in response before flicking his tongue over their pleasure again, and curling his finger simultaneously. This elicited another shudder and a strangled moan from the human—and another, and a gasp, as he found a rhythm. Licking and stroking steadily, he supposed he was glad he’d been wrong about Fuorn’s sex, in the sense that attempting to orally pleasure a penis would have been a much riskier affair.  

When Fuorn came, it was violent and enduring. The _nakhzej_ began to pant and growl, growing louder abruptly and then suddenly falling silent for long moments as their whole body convulsed, tightening around his finger and forcing the Orc to pin their hips with his injured arm lest they buck too hard against his mouth. Riding out the orgasm with something akin to agony on their sun-browned face, Fuorn heaved and trembled, their breath coming in irregular bursts that subsided into laughter as the shudders lessened.

_“Ah—ah—all right, I—”_ They pushed his head gently away from their swollen cunt, and he slowly withdrew his slick finger from it to lie beside them as they continued to chuckle; their face was radiant and flushed as they turned to embrace him.

_“Lovely,”_ Fuorn announced, thumping their forehead lightly against his and snaking an arm about his waist.

_“Lovely,”_ he agreed, sucking their juices from his forefinger (salty and faintly sweet, he noted) before pulling them flush against his chest and pressing his lips to the corner of their mouth—something in between an Orcish kiss and a human one, something that made the _nakhzej s_ igh and curl closer than he’d thought possible.  

There was a brief interlude before Fuorn stirred to search his face. _“So, then, Uruk. If I’m not mistaken, it’s your turn.”_


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow so it's hard to write a convincing blowjob if you've never received one, even if you think you're pretty decent at giving them. huh.

_“You are not mistaken, tark,”_ Azog chuckled, and lazily rolled onto his back.Fuorn followed him, climbing astride his hips to plant a soft, human kiss against his temple.

The chasteness of that gesture contradicted the fervor with which the nakhzej dug their fingertips into his sides, and Azog squirmed slightly as their touch wandered south, tracing the curves of his hips and raking blunt nails over his upper thighs.

_“I, I---,”_ the Orc choked on his words at the sensation, somewhere between pain and _ticklish,_ and Fuorn grinned evilly before relenting and rubbing calloused palms over the offended area.

_“Shhhh,”_ and then, gathering back their own hair over one shoulder, the human abruptly _swallowed_ his cock.

Chaos reigned in Azog’s head---wetness, warmth, need—and just as suddenly they pulled off again and their hands gathered his spit-slick member and stroked it gently, scrutinizing the way his foreskin pooled over its head and then retracted again with an agonizingly slow caress. Their predatory smile only broadened as they met his eye, squeezing and pulling his shaft and it felt so good but it just wasn’t enough—

“Harder,” he groaned, and Fuorn obliged, tightening their grip.

All that emerged from his mouth this time was a sort of strangled moan. It paled in comparison to the wet noises that the human’s hands wrung from his cock, stroking him in earnest now from base to tip, with a particularly interesting twisting motion that Azog thought might just wring his soul from his body.

The _nakhzej_ leaned down to tongue his balls lightly, tracing the seam of his sac and up his shaft before suckling lightly at the tip again, hands still stroking busily. Mouth occupied, the corners of their eyes nonetheless crinkled in delight as they glanced at Azog’s face. He felt, more than heard, the soft laugh in their throat before they pulled away again.

_“That face is glorious,”_ Fuorn informed him, and Azog was aware for a moment of just how wide his eyes must be, before the human dove onto his cock in earnest again, plying the first (and most sensitive) inches with their mouth while their hands continued that excellent pulling, twisting motion over the rest.

The Orc had not enjoyed another for some time; he had never received this particular treatment before, given the inherent risk of an errant fang among his own people. Distractedly, he wondered if Fuorn was an uncommonly skilled performer, or if having one’s penis in an orifice so dexterous necessarily invoked such tremendous pleasure. He vowed, somewhat absentmindedly, to one day find out.

Orgasm, when it approached, nearly surprised him. The sense of his own impending undoing catapulted Azog out of blissful reverie and back into his body—a body that was sweating, chest heaving, and scrabbling at the bedcovers with—one hand.

One. The split-second of shock (how many times would he have to rediscover this new ‘normal’ before it was ingrained?) was just enough to stem the tide momentarily and he lifted his head to look down his body to Fuorn.

_“I’m going to----”_ he panted.

They looked up at him sharply, and lifted an eyebrow, but slowed their ministrations only slightly.

_“I’m going to come, if you—”_

_If you continue,_ he meant to say, a courtesy that seemed all the more important for the fact that the _nakhzej_ also had to _breathe_ somehow, but Fuorn waved one hand in a “go on” gesture and then redoubled their efforts. Azog felt his lips draw back.

Perhaps he’d thought to relax, lay back his head, savor the sensory experience…..but the sight of the human working him so fervently was enough to discard that notion. He strained slightly to keep his head up and drank it in.

Eyes slightly unfocused and heavy-lidded, Fuorn seemed utterly intent on dragging every possible whimper and growl from his lips. Tendons in their knuckles stood out sharply with every inexorable stroke, and their lips were slightly swollen, now, a deeper pink than before, as the head of his cock appeared and disappeared between them.

The visual brought him right back to the brink, and Azog’s awareness constricted until he could discern little but need. He needed _exactly this_ to keep happening, and it did. Fuorn’s brow glistened faintly, but they didn’t falter as he felt his shaft begin to throb palpably.

Climax roared through him. Guttural, stuttering groans echoed in his ears—his own, but that information was irrelevant compared to the input he was receiving from other parts of his anatomy. Waves of heat and pleasure seemed to radiate outward from his cock, to fill him, even as he emptied himself into the obliging wetness of the _nakhzej’_ s throat.

They took it in stride with only a slight hitch in their breath, and slowed, drawing the last few shudders from his body without overtaxing his now-highly-sensitive length. Azog’s teeth clacked together and he unscrewed his face in time to watch Fuorn glance up at him, amusement plain on their features, before swallowing laboriously, comically wide-eyed.

_“Oromë, Uruk. Where the hell were you keeping all that?”_ they sputtered, wiping their mouth with the back of a hand.

Suddenly unsure, he indicated his stones. _“I understood Men also kept it here….?”_

Fuorn blinked and then roared with laughter. Seeing Azog’s confusion, though, they cut themself off and pulled him into a tight hug. _“Rhetorical question, darling. They do indeed.”_

The human slid from his side, then, and drank from a cup at the bedside before blowing out the candle beside the door. Idly, Fuorn moved about the moonlit room, kicking their respective sets of hastily-shed clothing into a pile where it wouldn’t be tripped on in the night.

As he wormed his way beneath the blankets, Azog thanked the sex-induced stupor that would hopefully allow his mind to follow his weary, weakened body into sleep without too much thought. The grief, the fear, the sense of duty were still there, but a bit more distant, for now. He would take the peace he could get.

As Fuorn rejoined him and curled against his side, though, Azog had the energy for one more coherent sentence.

“Definitely _not in the oath of alliance, that.”_

The _nakhzej_ ’s small, flat teeth glinted in the dark when they grinned. _“No, indeed,”_ they murmured, and tucked their head into the crook of his shoulder with a satisfied sigh.

Azog felt a smile crease his own face in response. Warmth blossomed beneath the blankets as they settled, and then the Orc knew no more.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's been a ride, folks. This story has been a first for me in many ways. It's the first multi-chapter story I've ever finished; it's the first I've ever shared with an audience, and I want to thank everyone who read/shared/commented or left kudos. It took over a year, but here we are.
> 
> I also want everyone to know that I'm not done with these characters yet. I think there's still a lot to be explored in their lives, individually and together, and I'm sitting with some ideas for another work in this series. Please let me know if you'd be interested. Again thanks, and much love.

Morning came much as the last had. Azog awoke with a profound sense of disorientation and a stab of pain in his left hand that abated when he opened his eyes and was reminded that it was longer present. A stream of images and a crushing grief followed shortly after, and once again the Orc was awash in flashbacks to recent battle. His friends, his hand, bloody mud, his friends…..

Deep breaths, then, and perhaps a few tears did leak onto the pillow that cradled his head as he considered the journey of duty and regret that lay before him. Ten days’ ride, without a mount, would be twenty days on foot. All to bring word of loss and defeat. Two dozen families torn apart already, but they wouldn’t know it until Azog returned with the news on his lips. A bitter gift.

Such wounds were slow to heal, he reminded himself, and for a few minutes more he lay beneath the quilt and let himself hurt, as the faces and voices of his comrades echoed behind his eyes.

A sudden awareness— _you didn’t sleep alone last night_ —arrived suddenly, a rush of recollection cutting through the haze of grief, and Azog twisted to check the pillow beside him.

Empty. He released a breath, and appreciation for the softness and comfort of this bed reasserted itself, even in the wake of raw recollection. He focused on the moment, savoring the precarious contentment, storing it away behind his eyes for later, when the road would be unforgiving, and his destination not the joyful homecoming of journeys past.

At last, the Orc roused himself, recovered his clothes, and shuffled into the warmer main room, still wrapped in somber thought. He was still readjusting his belt and considering cold, hard logistics when the sight of a trousered backside brought him back sharply into the moment.

_A backside he’d recently admired more fully_ , he reminded himself, and grunted a _“Good day,”_ at which Fuorn ceased to rummage through the large trunk before them, straightened, and turned to smile at him.

_“The great white ghost awakens. You slept well?”_

_“Indeed. Your bed is by far the most comfortable I have experienced. I only wish I could have enjoyed it untroubled….upon waking the grief and loss have returned.”_ Azog was momentarily surprised by his own openness, but any doubt was quickly silenced as the human stepped forward and embraced him warmly.

They thought no less of him for his hurt, he reminded himself, thinking with some chagrin of his tears the day before, and the connection they’d enjoyed even after his fears overwhelmed him repeatedly.

_“This is only to be expected, darling.”_ Fuorn laid their cheek against his sternum and then pulled back to look up at him. _“If you did not feel these things, I would fear for you.”_ They reached to cup his chin and drew his face downward, to press their mouth against his jaw.

When the nakhjez drew back, they pressed a folded parchment into his hand. As they turned to place breakfast on the table (eggs fried hard, and roast potatoes), Azog unfolded the delicate material to reveal….something.

_“Can you read, Azog?”_ Fuorn queried gently, dunking two mugs into the water crock and sliding one across the tabletop toward him. _"In any tongue?"_

_“….No. I cannot,”_ he admitted as he settled astride a bench and sipped, still studying the paper before him. _“A few in Gundabad can. One elder learned in Dale, and has taught some of the young…..”_

Fuorn sat across from him and forked up some eggs, chewing thoughtfully. A few more moments of silence elapsed before Azog’s eyes widened and he looked up.

_“This is a map.”_

_“Yes.”_ Fuorn looked pleased. _“It is. Of all the lands of Eriador and the Rhovanion. Purchased at great expense, many years past, in Lothlorien.”_

The Orc jabbed a blunt fingertip at a small star on the parchment, clearly added after the fact in a cheaper ink. _“And this is here?”_ Fuorn nodded.

_“My home. Should you need to find it again.”_

_“So this, then…the Anduin….and here, Gundabad,”_ Azog mused, tracing the curves of the great river upward toward the intersection of two lines of triangles which must surely represent mountain ranges.

_“Take it with you. The river will take you home, but perhaps your people can have use of the greater perspective.”_ The human glanced at him over another forkful, and Azog nodded, laboriously refolding the map one-handed before greeting his own breakfast with enthusiasm.

Belatedly, as he chased the last scraps of egg across his plate, the Orc thought to thank Fuorn. They just smiled, though, before allowing that they had many times copied the costly map by hand for their own use.

_“And indeed, I have no intention of roaming widely myself, now,”_ they added, waving a hand to indicate the cabin and (presumably) the lands immediately about. _“This is home.”_

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Fed, watered, and re-bandaged yet again, Azog turned to preparations for departure. Fuorn had filled waterskins and wrapped a few days’ worth of dried meat and fruit for him, and left these on a countertop beside the pot of pungent green healing unguent and some clean rags for bandaging. But he was left to settle these supplies in his pockets, and arrange them along his belt, while the human excused themself out of doors.

When he was satisfied with the distribution of goods on his person, Azog emerged into the pale autumn light, letting the door swing shut behind him with a faint regret. This place had been good to him. Good _for_ him also, perhaps, he mused as he stepped down into the yard.

Would he see it again? It seemed impossible in the moment to imagine a future encompassing months….seasons…years. The fullness of a life obscured from him, as if it lay beyond the curvature of the earth. All that lay before him this bright morning was the immediate. Returning home. Hurting. Healing. Surviving.

And perhaps beyond that, beyond the horizon of the coming days and weeks, beyond his ability to guess at what would come to be….

Perhaps there would be peace. The new world he and Fuorn had toasted last night, made real. And in such a world, why would he not ride south once again to meet a friend?

A scattering of chickens about his ankles broke the Orc’s reverie, flapping and squawking about his boots. The noise appeared to draw Fuorn’s attention as well. They brushed bright curls of shaved wood from their lap as they rose from a stump beside the woodshed and picked their way to him among the flock.

_“This is also for you,”_ they announced, and thumped a thick length of ironwood into Azog’s good palm. He hefted it experimentally, and swept it to the side, cautious of the indignant birds about his feet. Air parted with a whoosh before the staff, which felt reassuringly heavy in his grip.

_“It will do,”_ he declared. Not so nicely as his axe, lost somewhere on the field of battle, but the Orc was loath to return there even for a moment. It would do. Besides, he felt stronger today. Fighting was about application of force, and a five-foot staff in the hand of one who knew how to use it could deliver plenty of that.

Hopefully, he wouldn’t need to use it as anything but a walking stick anyway. Azog had no intention of traveling in plain sight. He leaned the weapon against a fence and opened his arms to the nakhzej, who stepped into them with a sigh.

_“It has been a pleasure to know you, Azog. May our paths cross again. You will always be welcome here,”_ Fuorn told him earnestly, echoing his own earlier thoughts unknowingly.

_“May it be so,”_ the Orc replied. _“There will always be a welcome for you too, in Gundabad, should you journey so far.”_ He stooped to kiss the human warmly, cheek to cheek. _“I will not forget this kindness….or the pleasure of your company.”_

Fuorn grinned and kissed him back, lips to lips. Then they drew back, and sobered again.

_“There is greatness in you, Uruk, may the Ancestors walk beside you.”_ They stepped aside, off the rough cobblestone path that led through the gate and into the trees. _“Go. Build your nation. Be well.”_

_“I will.”_

Azog set out for the river.


End file.
